


Exchange

by AlchemyAlice



Series: The Hostage Trilogy [3]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-26
Updated: 2011-08-26
Packaged: 2017-10-23 02:15:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/245128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlchemyAlice/pseuds/AlchemyAlice
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which there is finally communication in the light of day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Exchange

It was different after that. 

They fell into a routine, of sorts, in which Arthur mostly came and went as he pleased, sometimes leaving for days at a time. Cobb resumed his normal working hours, which were sparse except when on commission. The children became slightly less excitable at the appearance of Arthur in the house. 

Arthur didn’t come into Cobb’s bedroom in the middle of the night anymore, though occasionally if Cobb stayed up late, he could hear the guest room door open briefly, and then close. 

They didn’t talk about it. Cobb thought privately that they’d done more talking in a week than they had since before Mal died. Perhaps ever. After all, when Mal had been with him, he’d had no need to talk to Arthur, except in that weightless capacity of friendship and professional respect that didn’t require effort or maintenance. 

In retrospect, and with the more recent strange, off-kilter nights in mind, Cobb found it unsettling and telling how, when his own world had come apart, Arthur had made the leap from colleague and friend to support system, point man, and companion almost effortlessly. 

As if Arthur had long before set down roots with Cobb, which Cobb hadn’t seen, hadn’t noticed.

It was still different now, though. Now, there was physical evidence for it as well. In the new extra large coffee mug washed and left in the drainer, and the set of clothes in the guest room closet. In the neat additions to the grocery list on the fridge.

Arthur was  _staying_ , at least somewhat, and instead of feeling like he was being encroached upon, Cobb just felt...ready. 

It shouldn’t have been that easy, not after all this time. And it wasn’t, really--there was the ease of daily life on the surface, but dig any deeper and the years of estrangement felt present and heavy. 

Cobb found himself thinking that that could change, though. Given time.

***

On Thursday afternoon, Cobb came home to find Arthur’s rental in the driveway, and Arthur himself in Cobb’s study, talking quietly on the phone. Making a point of not prying, Cobb ushered the kids in (his turn to carpool) and grabbed granola bars out of the pantry while they scattered their school things across the living room. 

By the time they were settled and munching happily, Arthur was emerging from the study. Cobb glanced up at him. “Hey. What’re your plans for this evening? It’s Friday, so we were going to watch a movie.”

Arthur seemed to take a moment before answering. “ _The Incredibles?_ ”

“How did you guess?” Cobb replied dryly. 

“Incredibles!” punctuated James from the kitchen. 

Arthur smiled, but the expression was dulled, distracted. Cobb straightened. “Something the matter?”

“What? No.” He shoved his hands in his pockets. “Got a job, though. So I won’t be around tonight--flight’s in three hours.”

“Short notice,” Cobb commented.

“Mm, well, it’s a familiar team.” 

Cobb almost missed the guarded tightness in Arthur’s voice, but this time he caught it. He was getting better at paying attention. “Anyone I know?” he asked carefully.

Arthur looked at him, and said, “No.”

Cobb narrowed his eyes. “It’s a job with Eames,” he guessed, and at Arthur’s minute wince, went on, “But he should still be--Jesus, you’re going back to Madrid?”

Arthur grimaced. “They couldn’t find a replacement for me at such short notice.”

“At least tell me they got a new chemist.”

He snorted. “Yeah, that’s covered at least. Anyway, it’s late in the game, I just need to be briefed, get in and get out. It’ll be a week, tops.”

“And you’re okay with going out there?” Cobb said, watching him. 

Arthur nodded. “Yeah, I’m fine. It’ll be good to have challenging work again--there’s nothing but petty stuff around here.”

Cobb let that hang between them for a moment, and then nodded too. “Okay. You should get packed, then.”

“Already mostly done. Way ahead of you as usual, Cobb.”

Fifteen minutes later, Arthur was out the door. And Cobb ignored how the house felt suddenly bereft.

***

Arthur was gone for a week. Or rather, six days and a few hours. The time difference between LA and Madrid was proving problematic at best. 

At 3:22 AM, Cobb’s phone vibrated on his nightstand. This time, he was up like a shot. “Arthur?” he croaked into the phone, without checking Caller ID. 

“Don’t be daft, Cobb, Arthur would never call you this early in the morning. Too damned considerate for his own good, if you ask me. Although, interesting that you seem to be expecting him.”

Cobb squeezed his eyes shut before opening them again. “Eames? What the hell do you want?”

“What I want? I want nothing more than a drink and a soft bed. This bloody job was more trouble than it was worth. But that’s rather beside the point. What I need is for you to pick up Arthur from the airport in about an hour.”

Cobb froze, and then spoke through gritted teeth. “Eames. Why isn’t Arthur telling me this himself?”

“Your inherent distrust of me cuts me to the quick,” Eames replied. “But if you must know, it’s because I doubt he can even operate his own right hand at the moment. I don’t know what’s wrong with your point man, Cobb, and normally I wouldn’t rightly care, but he hasn’t slept the entire time he’s been here, except for work. He’s practically courting the land of the dead, and frankly I’m astonished we managed to pull off the job with him in his current state. He was barely even able to land a punch when I took him to the airport.”

Cobb swore emphatically.

“So,” Eames continued, “I’ve sent him your way. You can thank me later.”

“You do realize this is  _your_  fault, don’t you?” Cobb snapped, as he got up to grab trousers and a shirt from the closet. 

“ _My_  fault? What did I...? Oh.  _Oh._ ” And then Cobb could almost hear him smirking. “Oh dear, Cobb. I hadn’t realized just how deep those waters ran, though I ought to have figured...but then, it is nice to know my rendition was so lifelike. Accuracy is the key to my profession, after all.”

Cobb snarled inarticulately and hung up. He pushed a hand through his hair to smooth it back and got dressed without turning on the light. When his phone buzzed again with Eames’ text of the flight numbers (signed obnoxiously with ‘E’ and a grinning emoticon), he was already on the road.

***

LAX looked anemic and sullen at night, the halogen lighting illuminating the taut and wan faces of red-eye passengers and night shift guards. Cobb was barely in the door when,

“Jesus, he called you, too? You shouldn't have come out, I was just going to book a hotel for the night.”

Cobb spun, and was striding towards Arthur before he knew it. “Of course he called me. If he managed to get you on a plane you hadn’t scheduled yourself without getting his arms broken, then you’re barely capable of walking in a straight line, let alone getting to a hotel in the middle of the night.”

Arthur growled quietly. “You’re being dramatic.”

Outwardly, he looked fine, and had he been photographed, he would have looked tired, but again, presentable. As Cobb took stock of him, however, he noticed the way Arthur’s gaze was unfocused, and his balance seemed to falter every few seconds. The hand that wasn’t holding his carry-on had a slight but noticeable tremor.

Without bothering to ask, Cobb relieved Arthur of his luggage and steered him out of the building, one hand lightly on the small of his back. 

Arthur didn’t protest.

***

By the time they got home it was properly morning and the kids were due to be awake in minutes, so Cobb folded Arthur into his bedroom and then managed to summon enough energy to make breakfast and call in sick to work. He murmured conversation with James and Phillipa, feeling about as groggy as they did, and made sure they had bagged lunches packed away. 

When their carpool had come and gone, Cobb stepped back into the house and stripped down to his undershirt as he went. He opened the door to his bedroom cautiously. 

Arthur sat on the edge of the bed, fully dressed, elbows resting on his knees. He barely looked up as Cobb entered the room, so Cobb settled beside him to get eye contact. “Why didn’t you just come home straight away?” he asked quietly. 

Arthur blinked, slow with exhaustion. “They needed me,” he replied. 

“Bullshit,” Cobb said. “Eames said you were practically a liability by the end.”

It was the wrong thing to say; Arthur closed like he’d turned to stone. Cobb deflated. “Arthur--”

“No, you’re right. If I can’t get over this  _issue_ ,” Arthur spat, “Then what good am I?”

“Seriously? You’re going to ask me that?” Cobb put a hand on his forearm, gripping tightly. “You did fine, you were working fine, while you were here. It’s just Madrid, and that’s not a weakness, that’s just bad shit that you can’t help but remember.”

“That’s not it.” Arthur stared down at the floor. “That’s not...” He stopped, and just shook his head.

“So explain it to me,” Cobb demanded. 

Arthur closed his eyes, and didn’t answer. Cobb resisted railing at him in frustration. Instead he took a breath, slid to the floor and reached forward to undo the knot of Arthur’s tie. 

Arthur looked up at him in consternation. “Cobb. What are you doing?”

“Undressing you enough for you to sleep comfortably,” Cobb replied, tugging the tie free and looping it over the end of the bed frame. “Eames said you haven’t slept except under the PASIV this entire week.”

“Eames should get his nose out of my business. Also, I’m not a child. And this is your bedroom.”

“I’m aware on all counts. You’re staying here, and you’re going to sleep for as long as you need to.”

“I don’t--”

“I’ll be here.” Cobb paused in his movements and met Arthur’s gaze as steadily as he could. “If you wake up, and need to know if I’m here, then I will be.”

Arthur stared at him, something warring in his eyes. “Cobb--” he started.

“We’ll talk about it when you wake up. God knows I need some sleep too. Your hours are really fucking inconvenient.”

Arthur snorted, but he only put up a token protest when Cobb peeled off his waistcoat and set it aside. Cobb knew it was only the sleep deprivation that was driving his complacency, but felt gratified as Arthur began to fumble with his own cuff links, before setting them on the bedside table.

Satisfied that Arthur wasn’t about to flee to the guestroom, Cobb flopped down on far side of the bed, and pulled the duvet up over his shoulder, digging his face into the pillow to avoid the sun coming through a gap in the curtains. “Take your shoes off before you get in or I’ll kill you,” he mumbled into the sheets.

The bed dipped slightly, the blankets shifting. Just before sleep took him, he thought he heard in murmured answer, “You’ll be the death of me anyway.”

***

He awoke in the early afternoon to find Arthur close and warm at his side, and sleeping like the dead. He looked young in sleep, almost ridiculously so. Cobb resisted the urge to touch him, only to find that Arthur’s hand had already curled around his wrist, a ghost of contact on his skin. Cobb tilted his arm slowly in his grip to get a look at his watch. The children had after school activities on Thursdays, and wouldn’t be home for several hours. 

Carefully, he relaxed back into the mattress, willing enough to either wait or sleep. There were still deep shadows under Arthur’s eyes, his skin papery and gaunt even under the glow of deep afternoon sunlight. It would take several more good nights’ sleep for the appearance of fragility to ease away; Cobb knew it from experience, from watching his own face in the mirror slowly go from skeletal and haunted back to some semblance of what he was supposed to look like. 

A part of him remained unreasonably angry at Arthur for remaining in Madrid even after it became clear that he wasn’t going to cope well with it, but he knew he’d never be able to say anything about it, not without getting cut off again. He huffed into the pillow, one eye still trained on Arthur’s still form.

Arthur stirred, grip tightening on Cobb’s wrist. But then his eyes opened and in seconds he was a careful distance away on the bed, grip released like it had burned him. 

The coil of anger in Cobb’s chest dissipated as rapidly as it had formed. Slowly, he rolled onto his side to face Arthur. “How’re you feeling?” he asked. 

Arthur took a long time to answer--understandable, given how six hours of sleep wasn’t nearly enough to make up for a week going without. “Um,” he said, “Fine. Better. I think.”

“You can go back to sleep. James and Phillipa don’t get dropped off until five this evening. You look like you still need it.”

Arthur didn’t disagree, just continued to watch Cobb like he was something puzzling and new. Eventually, Cobb got impatient with it. “What, Arthur?”

“I can’t...” he huffed in frustration. “Dom.”

“You haven’t called me that in a while,” Cobb observed.

“God, you’re difficult.”

“So are you.” Very cautiously, Cobb reached and took hold of Arthur’s hand, curling his fingers into the palm. 

“Why did you agree to go back to Madrid?” he asked. “Did you really expect it to go smoothly that soon after?”

“No,” Arthur admitted, though reluctantly. He looked at Cobb’s hand over his, and frowned. After a pause, he said, “This isn’t my house.”

Cobb opened his mouth to tease him for the non sequitur, or make a quip about  _mi casa, su casa_ , but then he stopped. 

The house wasn’t Arthur’s, yes. But Arthur had a set of clothes in the closet, a mug in the cupboard...traces of himself here, mingled with Cobb’s space. It had begun to feel, just slightly, like it was Arthur’s house too. It felt the way their shared hotel rooms had, only safer, more permanent.

Arthur seemed to sense Cobb’s growing understanding and didn’t know whether to be relieved or apprehensive. Eventually, he said, still looking down at their interlocked hands, “I try to make a habit of not becoming dependent on things that aren’t mine."

“You’ve been away from here for two years,” Cobb pointed out. “I’d hardly call that dependent.”

“Yeah. When I knew you were here, away from the job, safe...” he exhaled, a dark inarticulate noise resonating in his throat.

Cobb looked at him. 

And he understood with sudden clarity that Arthur was never going to ask, that being ready would never be enough. Two years of estrangement and relapse into that easy, unburdened friendship maintained sporadically over phone calls had somehow made Arthur incapable of demanding anything from him. 

(Or maybe he'd always had that weakness, when it came to Cobb, and that thought, when it came, made him sick with guilt and irrational anger.) 

“Okay,” he murmured, almost too soft to be heard. And then more audibly, he said, “So make this your house.”

Arthur stared at him. Like Cobb had gone mad, and this hadn’t been what they’d been falling towards, all this time. Because they  _had_  been, Cobb just hadn’t noticed until now. 

He hadn’t noticed a lot, he realized. So he pulled the hand that was still under his towards him, clasping it fully. “Do you want that?” he asked. 

Arthur looked like the world was realigning in front of him. He swallowed, throat contracting heavily. “Yes,” he whispered. “I want that. I have wanted that. Jesus, Dom--”

Cobb pulled him forward, and ducked his head to find his lips with his own. Arthur tasted sour with sleep and bad coffee, and Cobb was sure he was no better. So he didn’t deepen it, just let it linger, sharing space and breath. It felt warm and sure even as Arthur’s breath was a shallow, uneven stutter against his skin. If Cobb had felt doubt beneath that settled readiness, it slipped quietly from him now, giving way beneath pressure and skin. 

When they both pulled away, Arthur looked at him for a long moment. “This isn’t going to solve everything,” he said.

Cobb rolled his eyes. “Of course not. But maybe now instead of taking stupid risks you’ll come home and take a step back for a second. And I can pick you up from the airport at normal hours.”

Arthur glared. But then his expression smoothed, and tentatively he drew back from Cobb’s grip. Cobb let his hands fall to the sheets, and waited. Carefully, Arthur placed his palm at the top of Cobb’s chest, fingers curling into the contour of his collarbone and the base of his neck. 

“Tell me something I don’t know about you,” he said. 

Cobb smiled, and told him.


End file.
